Times Own

Times are when the birds wheel high in the sky
entrails spewed out far below
young 'uns looking through the rubble
olders standing , hips askew at corners
and where do the buzzing flies go
wandering like busybody ones always do
flitting around
were they dungheap ones
fat succulent ones
to be quashed with a lovely crunching sound
juicy gouts of fluids spurting as He grinds them down
lascivious visions wafting in across His senses
here now, and then gone
But delicious as he desires that completion
should that be the norm
should the chase begin
track 'em down
find 'em and take them out slowly
a lil at a time
guttural screams fading away
Wants that and then
would that be too fitting an end
Growls
slowly then straightens from the rut
Visceral look, and gaunted desires
Make them One's own
as is Times Own